Lullaby, My Children, Lullaby
by MagpieDreamer
Summary: The night, the cave, the team, the lullaby, and Teyla, reflecting.


**Lullaby, My Children, Lullaby**

AN: This is a random little ficlet from Teyla's point of view. (It's also pretty blatently Sheyla, so if you don't dig that particular 'ship, you probably wont dig this particular fic.) I've been wanting to do something which digs around a bit more into her psyche, seen as I haven't read anything lately that does, so, being the person I am, I decided to do it myself. I was inspired by the fact that A) Rachel Luttrell (Teyla) sings soprana (like me!), and B) we're supposed to hear her singing at some point this season (don't ask me which episode). So yeah. Enjoy! And tell me what you think!

Disclaimer: Characters ain't mine. Neither's the concept. I mean, jeez, you think if I owned _anything_ to do with Stargate: Atlantis, I'd be writing _fanfiction_? Man, you'd be _watching_ my stories every Friday night, not reading them whenever off the internet... -sigh- wish I was a writer on this show...

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There was a child, once. Just once. I was very young, and I never met him. In many ways, I'm glad. He would have been one more thing the Wraith could take away from me. I think my body decided to spare me the pain. He died inside of me, dispersed back into my blood and wound his way through my veins into my heart, my soul. Perhaps now he is always with me.

I don't think of it often. I try not to. Dwelling on such things is neither healthy nor helpful.

But there are times, like now, when I cannot help but think. He would have been… six… seven summers old by now. I wonder how different things could have been had he been born, assuming the Wraith didn't take one or both of us. I wonder how Major Sheppard would have reacted to me had I had a young son clinging to my arm.

The cave is surprisingly warm. It is a summer night here, and the fire is burning low, glowing embers throwing a constantly shifting myriad of colours against the walls. Aiden (I cannot help but call him Aiden in my head; so young a man seems to need nothing but his first name) has curled himself into a ball, eyes tightly closed. Rodney stares at the ceiling, tapping out a silent rhythm on his stomach. His eyes drift closed, then spring open again, then close. He inhales deeply and shakes himself a little, trying to become comfortable. John is lying on his stomach near the mouth of the cave, staring out down the steep, grassy slope we climbed up to get here, over the equally wide, grassy meadow at the far end of which is the inactive stargate.

I wonder what each of them is thinking of, and I think of placing those thoughts in their heads. Perhaps Aiden dreams of home, and his family. Rodney is either pondering the secrets of the universe, or longing for a hot meal and his own warm bed. And John… I can never fathom what passes through his mind at times like these.

Once, just once, I would like him to kiss me. Not because of anything I feel for him, but because I would like to be kissed. I would like to be held, and feel the warmth of someone else held close to me. I would like someone to push my hair out of my eyes for me, breathe my breath, touch my skin. I would like to be seen as human, without being seen as vulnerable.

I would like John. But that's not about to happen.

"Hey Teyla," John sits up, yawning and rubbing his eyes, "you know any lullabies?"

I frown and prop myself up on my elbows. Had he heard me singing myself to sleep last week? "Why?"

"Sing us one," John said, "they're nice, this time of night…"

I tip my head to one side, interested. I have a head full of songs, gentle lyrics from a mother to her children, from a woman to her lover, from a husband to an ailing wife.

Ford stretches, making a mumbling noise, "my grandma used to sing to me… something 'bout a river an' a boat and… stuff…"

"I don't know any about boats," I tell him, gently, "though there are many about sailing."

"'S'okay," his voice is slurred with sleep, his smile easy through the gloom, "sing whatcha want, Teyla."

I consider. I have not sung for an audience in a while. I would sing to the children during a Wraith raid, when we took shelter under ground. I would sing in the mid-turn festival of Spirits. But it has been at least a year since I have sung for anyone but myself, in the deep of the night, when my nightmares cling like a second skin and it is all I can do to wade through them to an non-existent edge, pulling myself from a pool of despair.

I clear my throat, taking my time. I wonder what they would most enjoy. What would sooth their nervous spirits, marooned here, as we are, until a puddle jumper from Atlantis can pick us up, the day after next? I wonder…

I move my fingers, thinking of the clarisach that Halling plays, strings that are plucked, producing a sweet, bell-like chime. I feel the minor chords, the sad notes which touch against my throat before I draw the words after them, and start.

It is a sad song, but a soothing one, simple and content in it's melancholic harmony. A song about longing; chances missed and love long lost. A home too far to bear, a desolation too close for comfort. But hope, too. A song of hope, and knowledge, and calmness in despair.

I don't realise that I'm imitating the fingering for the accompaniment until I see Ford watching myhands, fascinated. Rodney watches me too, his head cradled in his elbows. His eyes are drifting closed again, his breathing alternating between even and sharp, as he fights his drowsiness. John doesn't look at me at all, perhaps not wishing to cause me any discomfort. But I know he is listening.

I repeat the chorus. I know how to send children to sleep, how to lull and sooth until they drift away on their dreams, my voice keeping them safe, drowning out the sounds of the Wraith reeking their havoc above our heads. Part of it lies in giving myself to the words; if I drift, then they will too. So I lose myself in my own voice. I let the words bring up long lost memories, my mother rocking me, her arms the only knowledge of security I ever needed. I feel another warmth, something from inside. I remember the pain as my child died; I remember throwing tree-blossoms into a river, and calling his name, as is done in funeral rights. It was spring. I hadn't realised.

I sing the last verse twice. If you stop right at the end, the sudden silence jerks a dosing child back into wakefulness. The trick is to repeat and repeat and repeat getting steadily quieter. And I do.

I've closed my eyes, almost without realising. When I open them, last notes drifting away from me into the night, I realise that I haven't lost my touch. Rodney and Aiden are sleeping soundly, and I am half asleep myself. So I lie down again, placing myself between them, where it is warmest, though I know it is selfish. John will not sleep for hours. He's like that; keeping watch for us. It feels safe.

It might be minutes or hours later that I feel a hand touching my ribs, gently manoeuvring me to one side. I oblige and roll over, finding myself more comfortable. He settles down next to me. I can feel the heat coming off his body, probably a few inches from my own, hear the soft scraping of the earth as he relaxes. Then something thick and heavy is yanked over me; his coat, which he shouldn't be using to keep me warm, is tugged up over my shoulders. I can smell him on the material, and it's not entirely unpleasant.

"G'night, Teyla," he mutters, close to my ear.

I smile, without opening my eyes, though I know he'll see. "Sleep well, John."

"I'll try. Nice lullaby."

"Thank you."

"Kinda cold in here, isn't it?"  
_  
It isn't_, "a little."

"Sweet dreams, Teyla."

His hand is just brushing the small of my back. I can feel it, warm and solid. I can feel his fingers, forming a fist, resting in the dip in my skin. I don't ever want to lose that contact. If I turn over now, catch his hands, draw his fingers to my lips, would he understand what that means? On Athos, that sort of action would be tantamount of a marriage proposal. I let the idea amuse me for a few precious moments, then let it slide into the increasingly blurry haze of my consciousness as sleep rises up to claim me.

And through it, just for a second, I am sure I can feel his lips, pressed to my temple. "Sweet dreams, Teyla," he tells me.

There was a child, once. Just once. I was very young, and I never met him. In many ways, I'm glad. He would have been one more thing the Wraith could take away from me. I think my body decided to spare me the pain. He died inside of me, dispersed back into my blood and wound his way through my veins into my heart, my soul. Perhaps now he is always with me.


End file.
